Last week I made a bold move. I bought the next size up in underwear. It wasn’t easy to commit to. Sounds easy, oh it’s not.I’ve stayed committed to the smaller size for most of my adult life. Through gains and losses. At times it barely clung to my cheeks. Those times felt triumphant even if life wasn’t. Weight weighs so much into my self-esteem. More so than I like to admit.
I could be at a dramatically low point, which usually coincided with weight loss, but that saggy underwear meant I was victorious in a lifelong battle of my self-worth intertwined with my weight.I’m not proud of that but I know it’s common. There are a set of expectations for women when we come out of the womb.
Stay in your lane.
You can have an opinion but not so much that you might upset the patriarchal balance of things.
And by all means, keep your weight in check. Everyone is watching.
I knew I needed the next size up, hell I could see it. The slight pulling on the love handle area. Yep, the ring after removal is a clear indication I could not deny. Yet I still battled myself at the store.Picked up the larger size. Nope. Put it back. Grab the smaller size I have a committed relationship with. Think about the ring after removal.Grab the larger size. Flip the package over. See what the number equates to in clothing size. Have a slight panic attack. All but throw it back on the shelf and grab my smaller size.
Fuck. Is this a mid-life underwear crisis?I can do this. I partially blame the pandemic. I look around and see many of us have possibly moved up to the next size in underwear. I come to terms with myself.I grab the larger size and check out.At home, I slide into a pair and have a revelation. This larger size loves my curves in a way I do not yet. They are cozy. They look good.
I’m gonna be alright.